


One Night Hand

by RatchetTrash



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hand & Finger Kink, Medical Procedures, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-sexual interfacing, Plug and Play, maybe?? - Freeform, vomiting (non-explicit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatchetTrash/pseuds/RatchetTrash
Summary: Whirl and Ratchet get stinking drunk and then a little intimate.





	1. The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kasimere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasimere/gifts).



> EDIT: Hi people, I'm trying to raise money for my friend with MS. I'm doing commissions for donations.
> 
> £2 per 100 words for sfw and £3 per 100 words for nsfw
> 
> If you are interested, please message me here or email me at ratchettrash@protonmail.com
> 
> If you're just feeling generous, or appreciate what you've read already, consider sticking a few quid in the pot anyway: www.gofundme.com/guys-bike

“Is it always this busy in the evenings?”

Swerve topped up Ratchet’s drink. “Yeah, I’d say so. Give or take a few non-regulars. You know you’re paying for this one, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ratchet stared into his drink. He hadn’t allowed First Aid to cover the late shift before. “I have a tab; just put it on there.”

Swerve nodded. He hovered nearby, as though expecting to chat to Ratchet as they did during his odd ‘quiet hour’ visits. However, his attention was soon drawn to the sound of a glass shattering. “Damn it.” He said, leaning over the bar to the group of guilty-looking mechs. He looked around the room until he spotted a large yellow frame sitting opposite Whirl. “Ten, get over here. Hey, Ten. Come clean this up for me.”

The Legislator looked over from his seat at a large round table, and began shuffling his way towards the bar. He glanced back towards Whirl as though to apologise for having to leave.

“Ah, leave him be,” Ratchet said. “See, now Whirl’s got no one to vent to. The place will go up in flames in no time.” He sipped his drink. He watched Whirl tap his claws on the table, his helm moving as though looking for someone. Ratchet swept the room, but he couldn’t see anyone Whirl frequently associated with. He sighed. Nobody was paying attention, already in conversations of their own.

“Why don’t you go over there if you’re so worried? Ten’s got work to do,” Swerve said.

Ratchet rolled his optics, and slid off his stool.

Whirl appeared to snap into a chipper attitude as soon as Ratchet approached him. “Ay, Hatchet Job. Didn’t know you could leave the medbay.” He synthesised a laugh. “I was just telling our friend Ten about the real reason Patricia looks into the camera at the end of _Breathless._ If you have a few minutes before you sense First Aid putting a scalpel back a little crooked, I could let you in on the secret.”

Ratchet smirked. “First Aid knows better.” He sat opposite Whirl, setting his drink down and realising he didn’t have much to say. He could let Whirl talk about ‘Patricia’, whatever that was. Instead, he took a gulp of his drink. It had a bitter aftertaste that always made him grimace slightly. He didn’t know why he continued to order it. “Do you want another?” he asked. Both of them still had a little under half a glass left, but he needed something to say.

Whirl’s optic dilated in what Ratchet could only assume was shock, before curving back into a ‘smile’. “Well if you’re being generous I ain’t going to pass up the old offer of a lifetime, am I?” The flier waved a claw at Swerve as he passed by. “Hey, barkeep. Another sea of rust if you don’t mind. Hatchet’s paying.”

Swerve just nodded and kept walking, balancing a two stacks of glasses in each hand.

“And a—ah slag, he’s gone,” said Ratchet. He stood up, using the back of his chair to straighten stiff joints. He didn’t speak to Whirl. Instead he walked over to the bar where Swerve was dumping the glasses into a plastic tray. “Swerve, can you stick another one of whatever it is on my tab too?”

“I thought you didn’t like it? You sure complain about it enough,” Swerve replied.

“Yeah, well. It’s good to stay on the same drink. Doesn’t churn your tanks so much.”

Swerve shrugged wordlessly and made a noise of confirmation.

“Thanks, buddy,” Ratchet said sarcastically. “I’ll be over with Whirl.” The medic went to sit back down, making a note to stick to quiet time. When he arrived at the table, he found his drink suspiciously drained. Not completely, but enough for him to notice. He shot a mild glare at Whirl.

Whirl blinked, flitting between the drink and Ratchet’s optics. A poorly synthesised snort broke his faked innocent silence. “C’mon doc, there’s worse things I could have done to an unattended drink. We all remember Big M back on Hedonia. Heh, good times.” He poked his curly straw into his intake and took a long swig of his neon cocktail, nearly draining it.

“You should see Minimus. He’s arguably worse without the armour.” Ratchet knocked back the last of his own drink, scowling at the taste of it. The ex-Duly Appointed Officer of the Tyrest Accord had joined Ratchet and Rung for a never-off-duty drink. Despite Minimus having no professional obligation to retain information, all three had agreed to keep the night under the wraps of confidentiality.

“I can imagine Lil’ M would probably go down after two rounds. Still, he’d be way easier to carry back like that. Could even give him a ride in the cockpit.” Whirl hiccupped and tapped on the glass of his chest.

Ratchet was suddenly aware they had a topic of conversation that was running relatively smoothly. “He’s surprisingly good at holding is liquor, actually. Perhaps it’s loadbearer anatomy. He’s not let me have a good enough root around in his systems for me to say for sure. But once he’s gone past a certain number…” Ratchet made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Gone. Definitely in need of a lift back. Although it is a lot easier out of the armour, granted. If only Magnus had mass displacement.” Ratchet realised he was rambling and stopped suddenly. He looked around, and took a long intake when he saw Swerve approaching. “Thanks,” he said, and immediately drained a third of his new drink.

“Thanks, Lone Gunman,” Whirl added.

Swerve gave Whirl a sarcastic look and strode away to cater for Tailgate’s politely raised hand.

“Wow, what’s up with him today?” Whirl asked.

“Beats me,” Ratchet replied.

Whirl drained the last dregs of his old glowing concoction, before moving on to savour his refill. He began to bounce his leg. On a particularly vigorous bounce, his knee hit the underside of the table. Both mechs were silent. “So, uh. Are you waiting for someone or something?”

“What? No.” Ratchet rotated his drink slowly. The liquid rocked from Whirl’s movement. “Could you stop that, for Primus’ sake.”

Whirl stopped bouncing.

Ratchet looked away. He took a deep breath. “No, I’m not waiting for anyone. I’m just bad at—” He stopped again. How strong was this damned drink?

“Oh.” Whirl pinched the straw from his glass and discarded it on the table. He gripped his glass, tipped his helm back, and emptied his drink into his intake. Some of the liquid ran down his neck, but he didn’t seem to care.

Ratchet frowned at the view. The action hardly seemed at all comfortable.

Whirl stood abruptly, his legs stabilising at different rates. His optic was dimmed. He walked away from the table towards the bar. “How big is my tab?”

Ratchet could almost hear Swerve’s annoyance from across the room.

“How long have you got?” Swerve replied.

“I’m going to need a tray.”

“Whirl.”

“For me and the doc. Pretty please with an energon goodie on top?”

Ratchet stopped listening then, instead attempting to focus on his current drink.

Whirl’s bartering seemed to work however, as he returned shortly with a precariously loaded tray of various coloured drinks and shots. He plonked it in the centre of the table, and Ratchet watched as he picked out two neon drinks, one blue shot, and two more ordinary-looking pink drinks. “For me,” he said. He then pushed the tray towards Ratchet, containing the remaining two drinks, and a matching blue shot. “For you. Cheers.”

Ratchet eyed the drinks suspiciously. The blue drink was darker than the shot, and the orange drink looked genuinely dangerous. He moved them off the tray and shrugged. “You’re alright.” He took a swig from the orange drink. “Primus below, what the frag is in that?” he asked. “Is that what you were drinking before?” He scowled at it.

“Hah, these are all just my usual starters, but all at once. Start as you mean to go on and all.” Whirl chuckled, static weaving into his voice. He picked up the blue shot between delicate claw tips. “This is a little recipe I got from my time in the Wreckers. Strong stuff. Hits you like a blow from a fusion cannon. Brilliant stuff.” He knocked the thing back. “Give it a go, Hatchet. Or you know, give it a shot. Eh, eh?”

Ratchet puffed air amusedly, and picked up the tiny blue drink. He drank it quickly, with no time to think of any reservations. He felt it in his spark first. It was a punch of coldness, followed by a spreading warmth that had his systems fizzling and shivering. “Primus,” he said and Whirl laughed. Ratchet’s helm shook involuntarily as a shudder raced up his backstrut. He quickly picked up the orange drink again and finished it in three shuddering gulps. His intake spasmed in weak protest, but his processor began to swim as the high grade hit. He misjudged how close the table top was, and slammed the empty glass on it harder than he’d meant to. His optics were sluggish. Ratchet could usually drink steadily for hours and never reach this giddiness. He was suddenly certain Swerve was charging him too much for his usual.

Whirl seemed to sway as well, and his voice crackled as he spoke. “I get it, conversations aren’t your strong point. But we don’t got to talk. This is fine. This is fine…” He trailed off.

“Yeah sure, kid. Sounds good,” Ratchet replied. The silence was more comfortable from then on. Ratchet nursed his blue drink slowly, the nagging need to say something for the sake of it only a dull thud between sips.

Whirl still had three and a half drinks to knock back, and was making good progress on catching up. He alternated between taking long dregs through a fresh curly straw, and tipping the stuff right down his intake.

If Ratchet were more sober, he may have found the whole scene grotesque. As it was, the blue drink’s high grade was starting to seep into his already tipsy state. He slumped in his chair as he waved Swerve down for another ‘whatsitcalled’.

“Sky rocket,” said Whirl, slurring heavily. “I named it myself.”

“Yeah that one, the blue one.”

“And another…” Whirl tapped the half-full glass of glowing florescent yellow liquid that Ratchet wasn’t sure he’d seen before.

The table seemed to have more glasses than Ratchet remembered ordering. The bar itself was far quieter now. How long had they been there?

Whirl scooped all of the empties in his arms and dragged them to his side of the table. He began to stack them in a tower.

When Swerve came over to deliver the drinks, he attempted to clear away some of the glasses. He only earned a synthesised noise of warning. Swerve held his hands up and walked away.

Whirl’s optic was pinprick focussed as he finally balanced the tiny shot glass on the top of his pyramid.

“Ta-dah,” Ratchet said. He tipped his drink back, but found there was only a small trickle left. “Looks like I’m out,” he said. “I guess that’s me done then. Thanks for the drinks.” He began to stand as though to head out.

Whirl’s optic reset and dilated back to normal size. He stood quickly, rocking on his pedes. “Wait, wait wait wait.” He rubbed a claw over his helm. “I’ve got a lil’ itty bitty stash back at my—” He hiccupped. “Hab. I ain’t propositioning you or nothing. Just a thought for if… you know? You in, Doc?”

Ratchet leaned on the back of his chair as he deliberated. He reset his optics a couple of times, processing Whirl’s suggestion. “Yeah, why not? Let me just uh… Yeah, sure let’s go.”

Whirl bounced a few times. He looked over to Swerve, then at his tower of glasses. He whistled in what appeared to be a poor attempt at nonchalance, and tipped the structure over. “C’mon then, Hatchet,” he said as he bounced from the room, cackling over Swerve’s cries. He skipped a little further into the corridor before leaning against the wall ahead of Ratchet.

Ratchet staggered after him, both of them running a supporting arm over the wall of the corridor to stabilise their movements.

They came to a stop. “Usually this is my stash, but I’m feeling generous tonight,” said Whirl. He punched in the code for his habsuite and stumbled through the door. “Come on in. Sorry about the mess.”

Ratchet poked his helm through the door, and narrowly missed falling down the step to the main floor of the habsuite. The ‘mess’ Whirl was talking about was a singular pile of haphazardly stacked digital clocks. Aside from that, the room was pretty sparse. Ratchet sat on Whirl’s recharge slab, too far gone to worry about the awkwardness of being in another’s domain. “It’s alright, I’ll just drink away my memory of ever seeing it,” Ratchet joked, then frowned. He had added a few extra syllables in there somewhere.

“Heh, that’s the way,” Whirl replied. He handed Ratchet a drink and clinked his own glass against it.

Ratchet took the drink and made a face. It smelled like tank acid.

“You’re not much of a drinker, are you, Doc?” Whirl plonked himself on the floor next to his recharge slab. “I suppose you don’t get the chance, eh?”

“I used to be a drinker. Before the war. I guess that’s a long time ago now. Maybe the high grade is better now, or maybe I just can’t hold it anymore…” Ratchet glanced at his own HUD levels. It informed him he’d consumed 28 units of high grade; enough to have any mech smaller than Roadbuster stumbling blindly, and far over the limit he set himself a couple of million years ago. Weird, he hadn’t heard it ping. He dragged his attention back to the flier, but he didn’t seem to be listening.

Whirl’s optic was blown wide, and trained on Ratchet’s hands. They were both silent for a moment. “Your hands are all sensitive and slag ain’t they?” he blurted suddenly.

The medic blinked. He tried to glean the meaning of Whirl’s question, his processor foggy with memories of those who’d asked before him. Something told him that wasn’t what Whirl had meant. “I can turn it up and down’n stuff, but… yeah. More than most. Why?”

Whirl’s optic dimmed slightly.

Ratchet could feel himself fidgeting, his finger twitching with a small clink against his glass.

“I didn’t know it could be turned down,” said Whirl with a short chuckle. He looked away abruptly and took a long drink.

“Yeah, charge depressors. I don’t really remember who made them originally, but they were invented for medics at the beginning of the war. Violence and sensitivity don’t go well together, you know? Hah. Yeah, you know…” Ratchet frowned at his drink, suddenly feeling very exposed.

“Doesn’t it bother you that, like, like… They ain’t yours? Not the ones you were forged with and slag. Don’t it bother you a little bit?” Whirl didn’t look at Ratchet.

The medic fidgeted again. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve had enough frame changes in my time but—I mean, Pharma was—yeah enough of that. We’ve both had a lot to drink.”

“But,” Whirl scooted closer, his helm almost touching Ratchet’s knees. His drink wobbled. “What did you do with the old ones?” he asked.

“They’re in storage. I was going to repurpose them. Take them apart and use all the working parts, probably.” Ratchet looked up at the top corner of the room. Was Whirl’s ceiling higher than his? He rolled his helm back around to look at the flier. Two perfectly round golden orbs stared at him. Ratchet blinked. He thought about his hands sat in storage, rusting and seizing. He felt stupid. “Do you… Do you want them? I could fix them up a bit, get in some new parts.”

Whirl choked on his drink and his glass shattered between clamping claws. The sound was akin to someone throwing paper in a lawnmower. He shook his helm vigorously. “No, no, no, nope. I can’t do that. I wasn’t, uh, no.”

Ratchet stared at his drink. He wanted to apologise but couldn’t quite find a way to say it. He downed his drink and shuddered violently.

“But… could I have a look at those?” Whirl’s voice was much quieter.

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Be my guest.” Ratchet placed his empty glass beside him, and put his hands palms-up on his knees.

Whirl inched in even closer, bringing both claws towards Ratchet’s hands. He held onto them gently, claw tips barely pressing against the centre of Ratchet’s palms. He stayed like this for a few moments, then began to tip sideways. He righted himself quickly, and his optic flickered. “Can I—I mean, you’re old right?”

Ratchet made a face.

“Well yeah I know, but you’re old enough to remember,” Whirl’s voice dropped until it was only a faint crackle. “You remember interfacing before it was fragging, right?”

Ratchet reeled slightly. Even the beginning of the war seemed like a distant memory. But the rise of sexual interfacing came about in a cultural renaissance, far before that. The time was a barely present memory in his archives; when medical procedures used interface cabling instead of HUD scans. He wondered if Whirl was old enough to remember that as well. “Yes. Are you asking…” He didn’t want to presume. His processor was already thick with high grade. Arriving at any intelligent thought was like wading through a swamp.

“What if I was, Doc? Huh? You gonna call Magnus on me?” Whirl’s words slurred together, loaded with static. He picked up the bottle of high grade and tipped it down his intake. Then he leaned over Ratchet to refill his glass. He spilled some on the berth. “S’not a crime, you know.”

Ratchet was very still and quiet.

“Well if you’re going to be weird about it, let’s just forget it,” Whirl said hurriedly. He looked over to the far side of the room to the clocks. “It was just a thought, you don’t have to wig out on me.”

“No, no. I was just thinking. I got the upgrades when they happened so I’ve never had much reason to go back and—well, I might be a bit rusty.”

“Really?” Whirl’s optic snapped back to Ratchet, burning into the Medic’s face.

Something told Ratchet he wasn’t trying to clarify his upgrades. He nodded simply. “I’m guessing this isn’t a two way thing?”

“No.”

“I want access to your medical interface. Just in case.”

“Hah, you’re not even sober enough to walk, Doc.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything

“Fine, fine, let’s just get on with it. Wait, wait. I need another drink.” Whirl drank the last of the existing bottle, and staggered over to grab another. ”You want some?”

Ratchet knocked back the glass on the berth. “Yeah,” he replied, holding out the glass.

Whirl shakily poured. Most of it went over Ratchet’s hand. “Ehh, that’ll do.” He clinked the bottle against Ratchet’s glass and they both drank. Whirl plonked himself back on the floor next to Ratchet. A small transformation sequence revealed the tips of a thin cable on his side, just underneath his arm. He reached around, reached under, claw tips just grazing but never quite able to pluck the cable from its housing.

“I’ve got it,” said Ratchet. He leaned down from the berth, his chest plate leaning heavily on his knees. His helm was close to Whirl’s from his angle; they could touch the sides of their helms together if they moved just that little bit closer. Perhaps it was the high grade, but Ratchet didn’t notice. Instead, he simply grasped the medical cable between the tips of his fingers and pulled slowly, drawing the cable from its subspace.

Whirl made a crackling sound. He shook his helm as he saw Ratchet open a medical port just above his hip. “Wait, wait. Tit for tat, Ratch. Pay up.”

Ratchet frowned. He was having trouble remembering exactly where the transformation code for his cabling was. Had it really been so long? He grunted, annoyed. Finally he found it and the sequence drew back plating. The cabling was also along the line above his hip, but more centred.

“Oh wow, three cables. I never knew you were such a big boy,” Whirl cackled.

Ratchet huffed. “Medic,” he said. He pulled a singular line from its housing and aimed it towards Whirl. “Can you reach, or shall I do it?”

“I don’t even know where it is. Can’t say I’ve had much cause to use it.”

“That’s okay, I can do that.” Ratchet plugged Whirl’s medical interface cable into him. He manually triggered Whirl’s interface port.

The sound came from the underside of Whirl’s cockpit.

Ratchet lined everything up. “Are you ready?”

Whirl nodded.

Ratchet plugged his cabling in and sat back. He looked at Whirl. “I’ll try and keep this as sensory only. You might get some transference like you would in an EM field, but more directly. I’ll try and keep it to a minimum, but I’m not sure how it’ll go until it happens.” Ratchet squirmed slightly, suddenly feeling very open and vulnerable. He tried to concentrate on Whirl’s medical feed. “So, what do you want to do?”

Whirl just stared for a moment. He looked at his claws, then at Ratchet’s hands. “Can I carry on what I was doing before?”

Ratchet nodded, and held out his hands. As an afterthought, he fiddled with the sensitivity, turning it down. It would still be more sensitive than the average mech’s. Ratchet would admit he turned them up when he drank.

Whirl reached out with his claws again. He held one of Ratchet’s hands stationary, while with the other he trailed lines with a sharp yet gentle claw tip. He started at the base of Ratchet’s smallest finger, scraping a thin layer of paint from the surface as he ran his claw up, then following the line on the way back down.

Every inch of Ratchet’s frame seemed to tighten; as though his plating was trying to close up any gaps, any breech in his defences. The medic’s optics were burning into his palm. The yellow hue bouncing off his paintwork said Whirl must be transfixed, too.

Whirl had moved his claw to repeat the action on the second finger, drawing a thin, carved line up the centre and back down. He added a small circular motion at the base, before moving on to his middle finger.

Ratchet felt the inside of his mouth dry up, but he couldn’t find the correct impulse to swallow. He couldn’t breathe, his head was fuzzy, and his sensors were tingling like the first moment fresh energon had flowed into Pharma’s—now his—hands. He felt Whirl finally reach the tip of his thumb and a shiver ran up his backstrut. His hand twitched as the flier held it still, beginning at the thumb of his second hand, and working his way outwards. Nobody had touched his hands like this in too long. The medic tried to control his breathing and hoped he could keep how much he missed this out of Whirl’s reach.

Ratchet could hear rattling. He could feel his internals trembling, but the amount Whirl’s claw was shaking didn’t rule him out either. His audials were ringing, it made it hard to tell what noises were made by whom. He could swear the room was louder, a venting sound that came from cooling fans kicking in. He prayed to Primus they weren’t his.

Whirl placed Ratchet’s hands face up on his knees and admired his work. The lines had become more wobbly as time went on, but the flier wasn’t ready to stop. He used a tip of each claw to draw a spiral pattern into Ratchet’s palms. He started from the outside and slowly dragged them around, and around, and around…

The sound of a sharp intake had both mechs jump slightly. A small cut leaked energon into the crevices of Ratchet’s plating. Whirl’s claw had slipped while circling the convex joint in the centre of Ratchet’s palm. They both watched it pool and eventually escape, running between his thumb and forefinger to drip on the floor.

“M’sorry,” Whirl said. It was a sudden noise that barely sounded like him at all. He dropped his claws into his lap and looked away. “I didn’t mean to. I just forget sometimes, you know? I guess they’re still pretty sensitive even when you turn them down or whatever. Maybe. That was stupid.”

It was only then that Ratchet realised they had been sitting without the lights on the entire time. Whirl’s medical feed showed everything was fine. But it wasn’t. “It’s okay, I don’t… If you want to keep going I’m okay with that.” The cut was just a dull ache. He knew Whirl could feel it for what it was. It wasn’t serious. Ratchet’s last drink hit him with a delayed rush that only intensified as he swayed his head to look at Whirl. He felt himself slide, his reactions too slow to properly right himself before he landed on his aft besides the flier. “Woah,” He let out an amused huff, and leant against the berth. Internally, his HUD pinged to tell him he was past double his pre-set limit for high grade.

Whirl laughed. It seemed to snap him out of his staring. “Yeah, that stuff is lethal. You drink loads ‘cause you don’t think it’s getting you anywhere, then-” He made an explosion gesture. The flier stood and the cables yanked hard.

“Ow. Primus, Whirl be careful.”

“Forgot,” Whirl said by way of apology. He slowly walked backwards, letting the cables unfurl as he went. He bent down, nearly overbalancing as he did so, and picked up a clock. He stumbled to sit back at Ratchet’s feet. He handed it to the medic. “I know you’re not a chronosmith or anything, but could you just, take it apart, maybe? I bet you’ve got the tools for it in your subspace.”

“I could try.” Ratchet’s hesitance was clear. He squinted in the dark at the tiny screws holding the device together, and rooted around in his subspace for the correct instruments.

Meanwhile, Whirl lay on the floor with his optic offline and his claws behind his helm. The cables trailed between them

Ratchet’s vision was very sluggish. It made undoing tiny screws hard work. He managed to get the casing off the clock.

“Why don’t you turn them up a bit?” Whirl asked.

“What?”

“Your hands. It might make it easier.”

“Right. Yeah. Tell me if it’s too much.” Ratchet fiddled with his charge depressors, and immediately Whirl’s optic onlined.

“It’s like they’re buzzing,” he said.

“I don’t notice,” Ratchet replied. He went to turn them down a little.

“No, no leave it.”

“Okay.” Ratchet picked up the tool again. The clock’s mechanism was digital. Ratchet hadn’t any experience dealing with clocks, but the pieces in this device seemed simple enough. He supposed they would have to be.

Whirl’s optic grew brighter and brighter the further Ratchet progressed. He simply lay, staring at the ceiling as he felt though the cabling.

Ratchet began to touch more. Once he removed a screw, he rolled it in between his thumb and finger before placing it on the floor next to him. He traced the edges of the plastic casing, felt the smoothness in his palm. He let the raw end of the wires touch his plating, completing a circuit that sent a stinging tingle of electricity through his fingers and up his arm. The pointed end of LEDs stabbed into his palm. Once the wires were removed, he wove them between his fingers and pulled, letting them run through the more sensitive plating seams. He did this for every part, watching Whirl’s medical feed as the flier’s plating temperature rose, his spark stuttering.

Eventually Whirl’s optic flared, and he reached over, knocking the remaining parts from Ratchet’s hands. “Stop now,” he said. He yanked his medical interface cable from Ratchet, letting it spool back into its housing.  Then he reached underneath his cockpit and unplugged Ratchet’s cable. He slumped back to lie on the floor, offlining his optic again.

“Are you alright?” Ratchet asked.

“Yeah. Sorry. About the cut,” Whirl replied.

“It’s okay, it didn’t hurt.”

“Heh, yeah, bet it didn’t.” Whirl synthesised a chuckle that didn’t sound entirely faked. “This one time, right? Right near the time I was finished with the Corps. Didn’t really use my hands for fighting but this one, this one fragging guy, we were drunk and he started saying the regular stupid slag. One thing lead to another and I punched him, right in the mouth.” He laughed, a quivering mess on the floor. “I cried, I was so confused; wasn’t it supposed to be the guy on the floor who got wrecked? Not the mech punching him. But just imagine me there, the big ol’ Whirly bird. Jumping from pede to pede holding my own fist. Thank Primus I’d already handed in my resignation. Don’t think I could’ve shown up the next day.” He lifted his helm, optic animated at it shifted from blown to accusing to a wobbling curve. He pointed a claw at Ratchet. “Heh, ‘didn’t hurt’ my aft. I’m on to you, Doc, sneaky sneaky.” He abruptly let his helm smack back hard onto the floor, so much so his optic distorted. “Did you want another drink?”

Ratchet smirked. “Yeah, why not? I mean, unless you’d rather I frag off now.”

“Nah, what’s misery without company? Where’s your glass?” He waved one claw towards Ratchet. The other, he bashed around on the floor until he found the bottle. He held it in the air. “You got to just put your glass near it. I ain’t getting up.”

“Shall I pour? You’re not exactly the right way up,” Ratchet asked.

“Ehh, if you think you can handle it, Doc, be my guest.”

“Please, I have the steadiest hands in the business. My only competition appears to be missing his,” The medic laughed in one short burst, and leaned over the flier over to grab the bottle. He tried to train his optics on the glass in front of him. It swam in his vision. He managed to tip the bottle with minimal spilling, and only a small ‘woah’ sound as it sloshed into the container. He passed the bottle back, triumphant.

“I’d give you a run for your money, Hatchet. If I could.” Whirl took the bottle and let it slosh down his intake. “So,” he gargled. “If you could be anything else, like even if you’re fan dabby dosey with being a medic—which you obviously are—if you could pick something else, what would it be?”

Ratchet stopped mid-drink. He frowned. “Something else?” he hadn’t considered it, of course he hadn’t. He was forged for this; it was all he’d ever done. His helm sagged. “Heh, I get it now.” He wasn’t talking to Whirl, not really. As much as the theory of rejecting one’s altmode was a simple enough concept, the majority of Ratchet’s compatriots seemed to match their function. Even Rung—who’d refused Ratchet’s help in self-discovery—was working in a profession which complimented such a mentality, however hypocritical. “I don’t know. Honestly I don’t think I’d ever be as good at anything else.”

Whirl stayed quiet for a while eyeing the doctor with an unreadable, dull gaze. He eventually shrugged. "Fair enough, I suppose most mechs have that attitude." He sighed and let his optic click off. They were silent. "You're alright, doc," he muttered after a while.

Ratchet suddenly felt heavy and empty all at once. He felt old. He let his optics offline and sipped his drink blind. It tasted sour. It didn’t bother him at this point. He put his glass on the floor next to him and took a peek at Whirl. He’d do a quick scan later, just to make sure he’d be okay alone. “You too, kid,” he said, and let himself slump.

"The chronometer in the medbay is off by two seconds," Whirl mumbled blearily into the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Whirl replied. There was a long pause. “You know, the real reason Patricia is looking at the camera at the end is ‘cause the movie wants to remind you that by watching it you are basically a voyeur.”

Ratchet didn’t know what Whirl meant.

“See. ‘Cause we all just witnessed a desperate man. Not a good man, a desperate man. Tired of the world and everyone in it. He dies out of breath—and a gunshot wound—but really he was running out of air from the very beginning, suffocated by his situation see? And you the viewer just watched it happen. It was entertainment for you. Patricia is there to be like ‘I know what you just did, you’re as bad as me.’ See? I mean, I ain’t going to get into the lip touching; that’s a whole other thing. But… yeah.”

“Okay, kid,” Ratchet mumbled.

"I'll... fix it." Whirl breathed. "I'll fix it sometime.”

“What?”

“The clock. In medbay,” Whirl mumbled, clearly drifting from consciousness.

“Oh. Yeah, ‘s a good idea,” Ratchet said. He forced his optics to open and brought up his HUD. A quick diagnostic scan suggested that while Whirl’s energon toxicity level was higher than a venomous scraplet’s, he wasn’t likely to purge his tanks. At least, not until the next day. Old joints creaked as the medic stood. He looked at the pile of helicopter on the floor in the dim light. “I’m going to get you up so you can lie on the berth, okay?” He didn’t receive a reply. He bent down with a grunt and a slightly off-balance stagger, and gripped Whirl’s wrists. He gave him a yank, and stumbled back a bit with the weight of Whirl leaning on him. “Okay, down you go.” He gently directed Whirl onto the recharge slab. Satisfied, Ratchet did one more cursory check on Whirl’s systems. “You’re okay,” he said, although he knew the flier had fallen into recharge. “I’m going to leave now.” Ratchet accidently kicked the loose clock parts across the floor as he swayed his way out of the door.

The corridor was too bright, and a lot cooler. Ratchet ran is hand along the wall so that he could tell where he was going with half-shuttered optics. Upon nearly falling over the bulkhead of medbay, Ratchet leaned against the wall, staring across the room. No patients. First Aid was probably in the office. The chronometer stared at him and he stared back. He concentrated for what felt like a long time, and decided Whirl was probably right. His back slid down the wall until he found himself sitting. Not long after, he fell into recharge with his HUD still blinking ignored warnings.


	2. The Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a drunken mistake fic without the morning after? Ratchet is ashamed, Rung is unimpressed, and First Aid is confused. I guess this is kind of fluff as well? It's the fluffiest thing I've ever written at least. And this isn't even a romantic relationship. Hm. 
> 
> Tags: Canon typical violence, vomit (not explicitly described), fluff (???), medical procedures (not explicitly described), emotional hurt/comfort.

It was First Aid’s voice that woke Ratchet.

As the medic’s optics onlined, he realised two things. The first was that he had fallen asleep on the floor, slumped against the wall. The second was that First Aid had put a line of energon in him, and left him on the floor while he tended to other patients.  Once he had adjusted to the light and reset his optics a few times, Ratchet could see that the patient was Rung, and that he wasn’t a patient at all.

“..well he’s down there now, and I seriously think someone should advise him against consuming any more before he does himself any significant damage,” said Rung.

“Any _more_ damage, you mean,” First Aid replied. “Look, I’m sure it’s a good idea. But out of you and me, you’re the one he’d listen to more, plus with Ratchet out, I’m sort of bound to medbay.”

Ratchet considered feigning sleep for longer, just to avoid the embarrassment. He reasoned however, that he would have to face them soon anyway and that explaining to both of them at once would be half as painful. He cleared his throat.

Both mechs looked at him, still sitting on the floor.

The CMO felt very uncomfortable.

“Rough night?” asked First Aid.

Ratchet thought back to what had happened. He found that a worrying amount was missing. His high grade addled processor had evidentially skipped over some information, or lost it. “You could say so,” he said carefully. He unhooked himself from the energon line, and stood. “I went to Swerve’s. I ended up drinking with Whirl. His drinking habits are a little… heavier than my own.”

Rung and First Aid looked at each other.

“Was Whirl okay while you were together?” asked Rung.

There was a long silence. Ratchet opened the memory file, its patchy images coming forward in unfocused static.

Him, sitting alone. Whirl, also alone. Some talking—although he didn’t remember much about what was said—and then Whirl knocking over some glasses. Whirl’s habsuite. He couldn’t remember any of the travelling. Then, a tugging sensation. Pain in his hip. Oh. Oh Primus. Hands. He remembered flashes of claws and clocks, but didn’t know what order they went in. A sudden burst of violence. More talking and drinking. Lots of drinking. And then nothing.

“Why?” Ratchet asked. Regret and dread began to creep into his systems, making his tank feel uneasy.

Rung raised an eyebrow, watching Ratchet’s face closely.

First Aid crossed his arms, looking between them. “Because Whirl broke into _Swerve’s_ this morning and has been drinking himself silly for the past three cycles,” he said when Rung didn’t.

Ratchet rubbed his thumb absentmindedly. “Frag. I’m surprised he’s even awake with the amount he drank. He’d certainly still be drunk from what he had last night.”

Rung looked worried. “Exactly how much high grade did you drink?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Ratchet replied. He paused, and sighed. “I remember my HUD pinging me about being over my limit, but I don’t remember how many exactly. Whirl drank more than I did, for certain.” Ratchet could not help but feel very defensive, and he knew that Rung could see it. As much as the psychiatrist was his friend, he knew once he explained what he remembered, Rung would be angry. Ratchet was angry, too. He was utterly infuriated with himself and his lack of reasoning.

“Why don’t we leave First Aid to work, and you and I can figure out how best to approach Whirl?” asked Rung.

First Aid looked relieved that he didn’t have to be involved.

Rung looked very pointedly at Ratchet.

The medic sighed. “Lead the way.”

Ratchet had never been in Rung’s office in a work context. He supposed this blurred a line between work and personal. That was enough to make him feel awkward.

Rung skirted around the room in what appeared to be an attempt to show Ratchet was not here as a patient. “I’ve managed to convince Swerve and Magnus to not intervene, yet. I want to talk to Whirl myself first. I can see you’re feeling guilty, and Whirl is obviously not taking whatever happened lightly. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I hate it when you do that,” said Ratchet.

“I know. But this is important.”

“I know.”

“What happened to your hand?” Rung asked.

Ratchet looked at his palm. “Oh, First Aid must’ve patched it up.” He paused. He chose what he was going to say very deliberately. “Whirl cut it. By accident. He asked to touch them.”

Rung took a sharp intake and looked away. “Ratchet, you should know better; you should have been responsible for this. He’s emotionally vulnerable and you have a duty of care to—I’m sorry, you don’t need a lecture.” Rung tapped a finger between his eyebrows, frowning. “He’s just come so far, I don’t want to see it all unravel in one day.”

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably. He was no stranger to lying, or omitting the truth. However, the only thing that lying would protect was his own aft. As tempting as that was, it wasn’t right. Ratchet took a deep intake and held it for a moment. “Rung, that’s not everything.”

The psychiatrist’s gaze snapped to him immediately.

“I… I need you to not say anything about it when I tell you.”

“To whom? You know confidentiality—”

“No, to me. I… don’t agree with what happened. It is my fault and I know you are going to want to tell me that. Please don’t.”

Rung was quiet for a while.

Ratchet fiddled with his hands.

“Shall we sit?” Rung asked.

They did, and Ratchet tapped the tips of his fingers together as he thought about how to explain.

From their sitting positions, Rung had a much closer view of Ratchet’s hands. He looked at the shallow lines etched into the CMO’s paintwork. His expression was unreadable.

Ratchet felt the urge to hide them, but he didn’t. An unsettled feeling wormed under his plating, making him feel sick and hot. “Whirl wanted,” he began, then stopped. That sounded as though he was blaming the flier. “No. Whirl _asked_ and I agreed to,” he amended.

Rung sat silent, as promised.

“Slag, there’s no good way to put this, Rung. Whirl and I agreed to participate in non-sexual interfacing in order for Whirl to stimulate tactile responses in my hands,” Ratchet said in a rush. He was itching to add more, to excuse his actions with high grade, persuasion, or just downright insanity.

Rung sighed heavily. He sat still for a long moment, looking just past Ratchet blankly. He stood, and placed a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. There was a long silence. “I should go and see him.”

Ratchet nodded. He didn’t feel any better.

Rung returned not long after, looking no less worried.

Ratchet hadn’t moved. His tanks were still queasy. He looked up at Rung as he entered, wordlessly asking.

“He threatened to kill me,” said Rung. “It’s not the first time.”

“Slag,” replied Ratchet.

“He may be in need of medical assistance, however. He’s purging his tanks quite violently. I think it may be best to send First Aid—”

“No, I’ll go.”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“This is my fault.”

“Yes. But frankly Ratchet, I don’t want you making it worse.”

“I won’t push him.”

Rung ex-vented in a long, tired sigh. “Be careful with him.”

Ratchet nodded and stood. He walked back to medbay, the light making behind his optics hurt.

First Aid looked at him when he entered, but said nothing.

Ratchet collected some supplies and made his way to _Swerve’s._ He could see Whirl’s back from the entrance, hunched over the sink behind the bar.

His helm was resting on the drainage board as he heaved scratchy breaths. One claw was hooked around the tap, presumably keeping him from sliding to the floor.

Ratchet made no effort to disguise his entrance.

Whirl looked up, pointing gun with his other claw. “I’m not accepting visitors today, Doc.”

“Rung is worried you may have poisoned yourself,” Ratchet replied. He continued to walk forwards.

“Isn’t that the point of high grade?” Whirl synthesised a snort, which quickly turned into a retching sound. He turned back to the sink, the gun pointing at Ratchet wavering in shaking claws. “You need to leave.”

Ratchet took Whirl’s distraction as a way of moving closer, faster. “Whirl, I just want to scan your systems. I’ll leave you alone after that.” Inside Ratchet repeatedly told himself to apologise, but the words got stuck in his throat.

Whirl turned back to look at Ratchet, and found him closer than he expected. His optic blew wide and, as an instant reaction, shot the medic in the shoulder.

“Ah, Slag,” Ratchet said, energon streaming down his arm. He pressed a hand to the wound. “Frag.” It wasn’t too bad, but it still stung like scrap. Ratchet pulled a wad of mesh from his subspace and packed it into the hole with the aim of it soaking up the energon while he looked at Whirl. He plonked himself down on the floor next to the flier.

“Frag off,” Whirl said.

Ratchet didn’t reply. He brought up his HUD and scanned Whirl’s systems. His toxicity ratings were far too high. “You’re going to purge your tank itself if you don’t let me do something.”

Whirl retched into the sink again.

Ratchet paused. “Okay, I’m going to help you, and if you don’t want me to then… well I guess you can always shoot me again.” Ratchet pulled out the equipment he’d retrieved from medbay. It consisted of a long needle, a tube, and a small tank. He connected the tube to the tank, and the needle to the tube. Then, he carefully separated two plates of the thinner armour on Whirl’s abdomen.

The flier jerked, but didn’t push him away.

Ratchet held the plates apart with one hand, and pushed the needle into the protoform between them with the other. His shoulder twinged and he grunted.

Immediately the tube began transferring the liquid from Whirl’s tank, to the external one. The liquid was a disgusting brown colour, presumably due to his mixing of various types of high grade. Whirl slumped, no longer purging. He twisted his helm around to see what Ratchet had done.

“That’ll probably take a while to drain,” Ratchet said. The webbing in his shoulder was saturated, and he was starting to bleed down his arm again. “I’ll leave you alone now. But you shouldn’t take that out, and you shouldn’t drink any more. I’ll come back and remove everything for you. And, uh… I’m sorry… about what happened. I shouldn’t have…” Ratchet had always been bad at apologies. He usually tried to make things up to those he had wronged in other ways. He wasn’t sure how he could do that for Whirl. He stood to make to leave, but Whirl grabbed him by the arm, holding it painfully tight.

“Shut up,” Whirl rasped. “This is just a thing. I wanted to feel it, and I know you liked it ‘cause I could feel you liking it. So don’t lie to me just ‘cause everyone’s all disapproving. I’m not going to explain this to you.” Whirl gestured at himself, and the empty bottles lying around him. “But it’s not ‘cause of you. And you know I don’t care enough about you to lie to make you feel better, so… So yeah.”

Ratchet grimaced.

Whirl purged one more time, letting go of Ratchet’s arm. When he finished, he looked up at the CMO. “And I’m not sorry for shooting you.”

A humourless smile twitched Ratchet’s mouth. “Yeah, figured.” He stood over the flier for a moment, before sitting back on the ground next to him. “It’s nearly done anyway,” he said.

Whirl didn’t say anything, but let himself slide down to slump against the bar and watch Ratchet.

The medic removed a small portable cauteriser from his subspace, and unpacked the wadding from the wound in his shoulder. These cauterisers weren’t suitable for large wounds, but they packed a good enough punch to deal with some smaller emergencies. Like gunshot wounds. Ratchet gritted his denta as he sealed the energon lines. With that done, he sat in silence watching the tank fill with mingled high grade and tank acid. Soon the flow began to slow, and Ratchet removed the needle from Whirl’s side. “Stay there for a minute, your tank is almost completely empty.” Ratchet stood and grabbed a cube of energon that Swerve usually stocked for mechs who didn’t want to get intoxicated. He gave it to Whirl with a straw. “Take it slow.” He sat next to him again and they were silent. He briefly wondered if all interaction with Whirl had to end sitting on the floor.

Whirl paused his drinking. “We should do this again some time.”

Ratchet couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you just read consider commissioning me! All the money is going to a charitable cause.
> 
> £2 per 100 words for sfw and £3 per 100 words for nsfw
> 
> If you are interested, please message me here or email me at ratchettrash@protonmail.com
> 
> If you're just feeling generous, or appreciate what you've read already, consider sticking a few quid in the pot anyway: www.gofundme.com/guys-bike


End file.
